Loving Gin
by ZeesMuse
Summary: Legends whisper in the shadows that one of the last princes of the line of Durin was a fierce warrior, a mighty smith in his own right, whose heart was as hard as the tree he was named after.But this is not so. For those who are aged beyond measure who remember such perilous times recall the one he loved, who was more precious to him than gold or jewels. They dare not speak ofher
1. 00 The King beneath the Mountain

_**Title:**_ Loving Gin  
_**Author:**_ Zee's Muse  
_**Fandom:**_ Tolkien - The Hobbit  
_**Genre:**_ FCHet  
_**Characters**_: Thorin Oakenshield/OFC, Thrór, Thráin, Dwalin, Balin, various other canon and non-canon dwarves  
_**Rating:**_ hard pg13

**Beta:** Alex Cat

**Graphic Art:** Elladan's Girl.  
_**Disclaimer:**_ I ain't him. Wish I was, cuz then I would be RICH! Nothing you recognize is mine.

A/N - I have taken a few liberties to make some things flow a bit smoother. I am aware that Dwalin is in canon some 30 years younger than Thorin - in fact Thorin is older than Balin, however I have chosen to ignore this and made Dwalin of an age with Thorin and Balin, a few Dwarf years older for obvious reasons. Otherwise, this is kinda sorta canon and kinda sorta movie-verse.

Gin is pronounced with a hard 'G' sound, not a soft 'J'...

Dwarvish is mostly taken from Elanithepeia

/Dwarven_Dictionary,_Common_to_Haakish_%28book%29

When unable to find what I was looking for there, I referred to the Olde Norse Dictionary.

Old_Norse_Dictionary_ #p

Timeline: Spans from before the Flight from the Lonely Mountain to 75 years before The Hobbit.

_**Loving Gin**_

_**Prologue**_

_**The King beneath the Mountains**_

~~~...~~~

_Love's tendrils round the heart doth twine,_

_As round the oak doth cling the vine._

_Ardelia Cotton Barton_

_~~~...~~~_

_**Prelude**_

_According to legend, there once was a race of beings, miners, master craftsmen of stone and ore, beloved children of the god of metal and earth, Aulë, The Smith, or Mahal to those whom he made. And according to legend, a line of his children ruled under the Mountain for generations and generations, a powerful kingdom to the east._

_Legends whisper in the shadows that one of the last princes of the line of Durin was a fierce warrior, a mighty smith in his own right, whose heart was as hard as the tree he was named after._

_But this is not so. _

_For those who are aged beyond measure who remember such perilous times recall the one he loved, who softened him, and was more precious to him than gold or jewels._

_They dare not speak her name._

_~~~...~~~_

_Time: 74 years before the retaking of Erebor_

Thorin thought his heart would drop from his body.

Truly, he prayed for it, begged Mahal to take him, end all of this.

But Mahal, in his infinite wisdom, did not answer.

For the past three hours, he sat, staring at the stone. Several times, he put his hands on it, on the surface, tracing the Dwarvish lettering he himself painstaking carved on the top.

_**Megin -**__**Sváss við Thorin**_

The stone was cold, hard and for not the first time, he regretted not sending her down into the pits, the fires of the forge, as many of their brethren preferred, to allow the fire, the Great Smith to claim her and reforge her.

_She might have been the renewed Arkenstone..._

But no, he could not bear to part with her, could not begin to...

Instead, he placed her in this cold bed, hard as himself, to sleep until he joined her. And then...

"Thorin." A gentle hand placed itself on his shoulder. "Please. You can do no more. Come home. You must rest. You must-"

"Dís?"

She squeezed. "Fili is worried."

"Fili is a child."

The dwarf-lass behind him smiled, albeit an unhappy one. She was a softer version of her brother, especially around the eyes and her hair. "Yes, he is. But he loves you." She did not remind her brother that her eldest son was his heir. That is unless he remarried and, truth be told, she honestly did not see that happening for many years, if ever.

"Dís, I would ask a favor of you." He still had not looked at her and this bothered Dís. "When I die-"

"Thorin-"

"When. I. Die," he gritted, speaking over her, his hand now covering hers, "bring me here. Bring me here, wrap us together, and send both of us down into the fires of the mountain forge together. Or bring her to me, if it is possible."

It was quiet for a time, the only sound of both dwarves breathing. Finally.

"Aye. If I can, I will. I will try. I promise." The two stood there that way for a moment, before she tried again. "Thorin, please. You can do no more."

Finally, her brother looked at her, lines, pain not there a week ago, now etched in his face. As his sister stroked a lock of hair away from his cheek, she noticed a ribbon of steel gray through it, a thread that had not been there days hence. "I cannot leave her alone in this cold bed. Not yet." It was a bare whisper. Gin hated the cold, could not stand it and Thorin had wrapped her and wrapped her in many furs. It was a wonder they managed to get the lid on her tomb. "Once I leave her in this place, it is over. There is no turning back. Please," he blinked rapidly, finally showing weakness, that which he abhorred, "this place is so cold. Leave me and let me sit with my memories."

Dís swallowed hard. It hurt to see her beloved eldest brother in this state. Finally, she relented. "For a little while, Thorin. Do not," she admonished, "make me send Kili after you." With that, she turned and did as her brother asked, leaving him alone with the body of his beloved wife...

And the memories he did not wish to forget.

_tbc_

_Megin -__Sváss Við Thorin:_ Megin - Beloved to Thorin


	2. 01 - The King of Carven Stone

_**Chapter 01**_

_**The King of Carven Stone**_

_Human age equivalent - infant_

'Tis said when Mahal created his children, he created them with great things in mind; great strength, great prowess, great stubbornness, and great love for the earth surrounding them. He yearned for children of his own to share and teach his love of metal-crafting, his love of the heat of the smithy.

And unbeknownst to him, his wife, Yavannah, kissed each and every one of them upon their birth as they drew their first breath, and whispered in their ears things the Dwarves remembered well into their long years, but spoke not of to any breathing thing. 'Twas a secret between each one and the wife of the Maker. She treasured them, much as her husband did, because she saw her husband in each and every one.

Especially his stubbornness.

For the Dwarves had long memories and, despite their pugnaciousness, clung to the secrets and endearments sighed into them when they first took breath.

In particular was what was whispered to one babe as she slipped from her mother's body.

_You will love him, when no one else loves him or when he thinks no one else loves him and is alone. He will be a fine Dwarf-Prince, but you must keep him from succumbing to that which plagues his line and remind him what is truly important._

Their mothers knew from the moment both were laid in Thorin's cradle together to nap, while they talked of things, mothering things, birth stories - for surely no female had a worse time birthing a babe than the woman who gave birth - that they were destined to be together.

Both woke at the same time; Megin aware she was in a strange place and Thorin aware his cradle was being invaded by someone else.

Someone with hair like spun gold and eyes of the blue sapphires that adorned his grandfather's crown. Even at this young age, Thorin, the heir's heir to the throne of Erebor, knew his importance.

However there was something about the way she - yes, she - smelled. She smelled of flowers and freshness, not of soiled things and puke, which he often smelled of himself.

But she was in his cradle, his castle, his domain in this dark, underground place. He knitted his brow in ire.

Megin's bottom lip trembled, frightened of this strange place, not seeing her mother nearby, and this other... babe staring at her with his dark hair and grey eyes. Staring at her as if _she _were an intruder. It was unnerving and her eyes welled up.

Thorin saw what was happening and suddenly the memory of that which was spoken softly to him at his birth...

_...cherish...she is your comfort..._

...came whispering back into him.

He did the only thing that he knew gave him reassurance when his mother's breast was not nearby. He pulled his fist from his lips and clumsily put his thumb in this girl-baby's mouth.

Megin's eyes grew wide at the intrusion of a strange digit that was not hers. She started to spit it out, because it didn't taste like hers, but realized it was put there for good reason. She found a strange comfort in it, the heart behind it and rather than cry, began instead to suck.

For a time, it was peaceful in that hand carved cradle that had been used for many years to rock many of the line of Durin. However, as she went to sleep, Thorin wished to sleep as well (for all mothers know that in order to grow, a child must sleep) however his thumb was in her mouth. He tried to remove it, unsuccessfully and as he himself grew cranky and restless, Megin returned the favor.

She stuck her thumb in his mouth.

And that is how their mothers found them, after exchanging tea and cake. Their babes in a solitary cradle, cuddled together with their thumbs in the other's mouth.

_tbc_


	3. 02 The Lord of Silver Fountains

_**Chapter 02**_

_**The Lord of Silver Fountains**_

_Human years - age 5_

"Dýr! You beast! You horrible, horrible, wretched beast!" The little dwarf-girl jumped, her hand stretching, attempting to snatch that which the young dwarfling prince held high above her head. Each time she jumped, he stretched higher, keeping it out of her reach.

"You show me no respect, Megin," he laughed. He was joined in mirth by his friends, Dwalin and Reka, among others. "I will be King Under the Mountain someday, right?" He nodded once, sounds of affirmation behind him. "And as you do not so much as give me one gram of admiration, I have decided to burn this miserable orc you love so much!" He looked over his shoulder to his friends. "'Twill serve you ri-OUCH!" The dwarf-prince bent over, dropping the doll, in order to clutch his knee.

"Serves _you_ right, you monster!" The child snatched her doll from the ground and cuddled her close, gently plucking dirt from her hair. "Poor Fagr!" Ensuring her darling was unscathed, she shook a short finger at the heir. "You'll never grow a proper beard unless you learn to be nice. My papa said so!"

His friends gasped at the insult. "Why... why... you..."

She pulled herself to her full height - barely two feet - and put both hands on her hips, her doll hanging limply from one hand. "Forað! 'Tis all you are!" Fury was now causing her to shake, tears finally threatening to fall.

That was the one thing Thorin could not stand. Tears. He really didn't mean it. "Megin, do not cry! I was only teasing because you show no-"

"'Tis Gin!" She brushed the angry tears from her cheek with the back of her hand. "My name is Gin! And why should I bow down to the King of the Boars?" With that last insult hurled, she spun, making her dress fly, and ran from the alcove.

Thorin made to go after her, but a heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. The young dwarf looked up to see his grandfather looking down at him.

"You disappoint me, Thorin," Thrór, Thorin's grandfather and The True King Under the Mountain, truly did look most disappointed.

The last thing Thorin wanted was to displease his grandfather but more so, he did not wish to be embarrassed in front of his friends. His dwarven pride was already growing to massive proportions. Quickly, he looked around this larger than life dwarf, to where they had been standing not minutes before to see...

"Your friends have left you, it seems," Thrór's voice was not the roar most people would think it would be, especially when it came to his eldest grandson. "Reka and his brothers, at least, have, but not Dwalin." He leaned backwards and motioned. "I see you, Dwalin, son of Fundin, son of Farin. Come from behind the rock and deign to walk with us. We shall talk."

As the young Dwalin slid around from behind his hiding place, Thrór

leaned over to look at his grandson eye to eye. "A true friend will never leave your side," he winked. He waited until Dwalin joined them before leaning over to that one. "A better friend would not hide behind a rock to see if punishment is given."

"Wasn't hidin'," Dwalin grumbled. "I was planning to rescue him if he needed it."

Thrór chuckled, a deep rumbling sound in his chest. "Aye, that you probably were, Dwalin." He held out his hands, taking each youngling in hand. He turned, taking them into the mountain. Dwarves bowed, stepped aside as Thrór strode through the halls dug out beneath the peak. It dawned on both boys that the people paid no heed to them, but to the giant of a dwarf holding them as if they were his.

At least, he was a giant to Thorin.

There was a hidden corridor close to the throne room, the place many - including the great Elven King, Thranduil - paid homage to Thrór and his people - and Thorin's grandfather ushered them through it. He grabbed a torch from the wall nearby and followed them up a winding stairwell, the glow of the small flame lighting their way.

If the climb winded the elder dwarf, he did not show it (although he privately envied the young for their energy) and did not appear to be out of breath when the three arrived to what appeared to be a long, two-sided balcony. Thrór watched as his grandson and heir, along with his friend, raced to the light, looking out over the mountain and into the city of Dale, a city of men. The two had never seen the horizon from this vantage, and he smiled as the two younglings pointed at the colorful flags and foliage seen from such a great height. For a time, Thrór himself was lost in memory: this very skywalk was where he asked his wife to join with him, mate with him, to be his beloved. It had been a cold winter day, the wind crisp with snow in the air and he had her wrapped in his cloak, enraptured by the feel of her soft beard on his cheek.

Shaking his head and remembering his task, he placed the torch in the sconce just inside the corridor, protecting it from the wind. He strode to the balustrade and leaned against it. "Dwalin. Retrieve the step over in the corner. Thorin, come look."

With much grunting and effort, Thorin's friend brought the stool over and set it next to the Dwarven King. Both Prince and friend stepped up so they could see down the mountain, Dwalin making sure Thorin was between him and Thrór. For a few minutes, he allowed the two to take in the sheer beauty of the Lonely Mountain, smell the scent of the summer flowers and foliage that grew between the rocks.

Finally-

"This, someday," he gestured to the peak, "will be yours to rule, to preside over." Thrór protectively put his hand on the dwarfling's shoulder. "Mahal gave our line the right to rule over the people and the mountain." He felt young Thorin swell with pride. "However," he continued, "there is also great responsibility that goes with it."

"Re-spon-si-bil-i-ty." That was a big word for Dwalin to get out.

"What is 'responsibility'?"

"Responsibility," Thrór repeated. "It means the dwarves of Erebor depend on us, that the people of Dale expect things from us, to protect them. It means we have a job to do. As king, as a prince from the line of kings," he stared at Thorin with a steely gaze, hard as mithril, making the young prince wither, "it is our responsibility to make sure our people are taken care of, kept safe. They respect us, but we earn that respect every day."

"But they should respect us."

"Respect is earned, young Thorin." Now came the lesson. "It is not freely given. It never has been and it never will be. Just because you are of the line of Durin and heir to the throne of Erebor, thought it will be several hundred years before you sit on it, Mahal be praised, does not automatically earn you respect." He waited and watched for that bit of information to sink into both young boys' heads. When Thorin's was sufficiently bowed, he continued. "You will not earn the respect of a young girl if you hold her favorite dolly hostage and threaten to sacrifice it to the fires as an orc." Thrór pursed his lips and shook his head. "And she will remember it when both of you are older and you wish to kiss her."

"EW!" Both dwarflings snarled.

"Why would anyone want to kiss a female?" Dwalin was thoroughly disgusted. Dwalin did not notice his best friend was blushing.

"'Tis dinner time, young Dwalin." Thrór nodded towards the steps. "Best be on your way before your parents come looking for you. Again."

"But you're the king."

"And I have sent you home." He nodded once more. "Go on with you." Quietly, the boy slugged his best playmate in the arm before climbing from the stool and making his way down the stair. Thrór waited until the noise died down before turning to his grandson. "Thorin?"

"I wouldn't have hurt her stupid dolly!" he yelped. "I just wanted her to notice me!" He inhaled before continuing. "She ignores me! Calls me names!" He blinked rapidly. "She called me a dýr, a forað."

"Anything else?"

Thorin jumped from the step stool and kicked a loose stone around. "She said I was King of the Boars," he mumbled.

"Oh my." Thrór murmured. "That was truly harsh."

Thorin look up. "Really? I mean, really," he quickly agreed, "it was truly harsh."

"But deserved."

Thorin hung his head, his attention returning to worry the stone at his foot.

"There are other ways to get a lady-dwarf to notice you, Thorin."

"She's no lady," he grumbled.

"And you are not acting like a prince." Oh, that got the King Under the Mountain a furious look, before Thorin's head bent down again.

"How?"

"Oh," Thrór had to think hard. How long had it been since he was young and oh so not grown up. "Chase her, pull her braids, but not hard..." Thorin was staring at him in pure disbelief. "Take her flowers, compliment her beard-"

"She doesn't have one, yet," he reminded his grandfather.

"But she will, someday," he chided his grandson, "as will you." Immediately, Thorin's palm went to his cheek, rubbing to see if that elusive stubble had somehow sprouted since he last checked... this morning.

_No. Not yet. _

Grumbling in the lad's stomach - as well as his grandfather's - brought the lecture to a close. Taking Thorin by the hand, Thrór started towards the doorway. "Tomorrow, you will apologize. I suggest you bring her flowers or bring her up here to show her the mountain. Do not think to push her over the railing."

Thorin snorted. "She'll probably knock me over it herself."

tbc

.

.

_Gin - short for Megin - old Norse for 'Ability'_

_Reka - Avenge_

_Dýr - Beast_

_F__agr - Fair_

_forað - monster_


	4. 03 - Shall come into his own

_**Chapter 03**_

_**Shall come into his own**_

_Age Equivalent - 5 years_

The following year, in the spring, Thorin, desperately seeking some peaceful time alone, wandered outside the Lonely Mountain, sitting quietly among the blooming daffodils and irises, taking in this very different, but beautiful landscape. The Great Elven-King, Thranduil, had come to pay homage to Thorin's grandfather and he had brought his son, Legolas. The Elf-king's son acted as if he feared he would grow a beard or sprout body hair and muscles if he got too close to any of the dwarves, something that amused Dwalin to no end and infuriated Thorin. So truth be told, he sought out the mountainside to calm down and gentle his heart against the not much imagined slight of the elven prince.

"Watch this, Thorin." Thrór sat down next to him, still in his kingly _Let's-impress-the-elven-company _armor androbes. He leaned over and plucked a blade of grass from the hill. Placing it between his thumbs, he gently blew, causing it to whistle forlornly. Thorin sat enraptured while his grandfather played somber music on the sliver of greenery in his hands. When he finished, he pointed to the ground. "Pick one, Thorin. You try."

It took many tries, which left the young dwarf prince frustrated and fussy, but his grandfather was patient and observant, gently coaxing, teaching the youngling until finally, the music between his thumbs sang sweet. The boy puffed up with much pride. Laughter trickled down the peak, the King Under the Mountain and his grandson and eventual heir enjoying each other's company. It ultimately escalated into a tickle war, which Thorin, quite naturally, won. Thrór lay back into the grass, his grandson straddling him, enamored by the silver chevrons in the elder dwarf's beard. Gently, he fingered them, enthralled by the heaviness. "Someday, I will have a beard just like yours."

"Aye, that you will." Thrór grasped Thorin by the thighs. "And someday, you will be King under the Mountain."

"But, not anytime soon, thank Mahal!" Laughter broke out again between the two. Eventually, Thorin slid to his grandfather's side and laying on his back, began to finger the happy daffodil next to him, his mind wandering. After some minutes, Thrór pointed, the long train of Elves marching at the top of a hill on the other side of Dale, Thranduil, the Elven King, on his great antlered moose, his son, loping along by his side.

"The Elven Prince upset you."

Thorin snorted. "A little."

"A lot," Thrór corrected.

Now the young dwarf snarled. "Snotty. Thought much of himself."

"As do you."

This brought Thorin down a few pegs. "I would not be so rude."

"Oh, I think you would be very rude." Thrór smiled. "You have much of your father in you."

"Funny," Thorin blurted, "Papa says I am just like you!" Realizing what he had said, he popped both hands over his mouth, ready to apologize.

Rather than growl at his grandson, Thrór laughed. "Aye, your papa is most correct! We are much alike. Perhaps too much alike!"

Which set off another tickle war, which again, Thorin won. Settling back down into the clover, Thorin asked a question he had been dying to ask for some time; at least two or three seasons. "Why are the elves so uppity?" He lazily watched the clouds, great puffs of fluffy smoke drifting across the sky. "They act as if they are so much better than us." He pointed. "Look. A dragon!"

Alarmed, Thrór squinted into the sunlight, before breathing a soft sigh of relief. "Aye. That cloud looks like a skinny firedrake!" He thumped his head against his grandson's. "Pray to Mahal, you never encounter one."

"I think they are a made up story Papa tells me to make me behave."

"No," Thrór whispered. "They are very real. Their cousins, the cold-drakes," with this, he spoke from experience, "are equally dangerous. And," he spoke up, much brighter, wanting to leave the reality of a dragon behind him, "Elves are uppity."

"Why?"

Thrór nodded his head. He had had this same talk with his sons, with Thorin's father. He had hoped Thorin would ask Thráin, rather than him, but...

"'Tis a long, long story."

"I have time."

"Aye," Thrór mumbled. "The young have all the time in the world." Taking a deep breath, Thrór began. "It began with Ilúvatar, the Supreme Being, when he created the world."

"I thought Mahal was supreme."

Thrór made a mock scowl. "Who is telling this story? Me or you?" He waited for his impetuous grandson to settle back down. "Ilúvatar or Eru is 'The One', from who everything came. Ilúvatar created the world, the heavens and the stars. Mahal, or Aulë the Smith as the Elves call him, is one of the Aratar, the eight greatest of the Valar. He created the land, rocks and planted metals and precious gems deep in the earth. He knew Ilúvatar was creating beings - children - to walk the earth. So, in his wisdom, he fashioned seven children of his own, those he would delight in teaching the skills and crafts that he loved so much; mining and metal-working. "

"But only Ilúvatar can breathe life into any creature and he waited until after he breathed life into his own - the Elves and Men. But he did," with this, he pointed his finger at Thorin, stopping his burgeoning rant, "breathe life into the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves."

"And we are descended from the eldest, Durin the Deadless!"

"You know what?"

"What?"

"I have the smartest grandson in all of Middle Earth!" Thrór chuckled at Thorin's delighted squeal. "Mahal created the pick and the anvil, and he taught his children to take pleasure in the treasures he hid for us to find."

"Hide and seek with Mahal?"

Thrór had to laugh at the thought of the mighty and powerful Mahal playing hide and seek with one such as his grandson.

"But why are the Elves so uppity?"

Thrór's laughter died away. "They have resented us for a long time. They argue that we, the Dwarves, are greedy. But they do not see the weakness they claim we have within themselves." The King Under the Mountain's thoughts drifted like pollen in the wind. "Long have the Dwarves and the Elves not seen eye to eye about many things."

"They act as if we are beneath them." It was spat, so much vehemence coming from one so young.

Thrór thought hard for a moment; how to explain thousands of years of mistrust to a small dwarfling. "Mahal created us to be brawny and strong. He made us private and stubborn because he knew we would not dwell with the Elves in their Aman. We had to be physically powerful because our home here at the time of our fathers' births was still under the dominion of Melkor, whose chains were eventually made by Mahal himself." Looking into the blue sky, he murmured, "It was a dangerous time to live. Our ancestors had to be strong enough to survive it."

Thorin digested all the information his grandfather had told him. He thought perhaps he should be grateful to this Ilúvatar for sparing Mahal's children, the Dwarves, as well as thankful that Mahal had made them sturdy and tough.

"They have their Aman," Thrór continued, "their Undying Lands. I say, let them have it, so long as the mountains, the mines and the very earth itself are left for us."

"I still think the Elven Prince is snobby."

Thrór now stood up, brushing the grass and leaves from his stately robes. "I think you are still correct in that." He held out his hand, a large, powerful, steadfast grip, that Thorin found great delight in holding. "Come. Your grandmother was rolling out honey-oat cakes this morning." Thorin began to bounce, as only a young child could - his grandmother's honey-oat cakes were the best tasting in all of Erebor. "I would think they have cooled on the racks by now." Thrór leaned over to whisper conspiratorially. "I will bet you my mithril crown that she would not miss one before dinner." He didn't tell his grandson that Kveykva would smack her husband for snitching a honey-oat cake, but she could deny her only grandson nothing.

As the two made their way back towards the entrance of the mountain, they heard grunting, followed by a splash and a yelp. Thorin was faster than his grandfather and he crashed through the bushes to find a sight that made him laugh.

The snow had been melting for a week or two from the top of the mountain and the small stream that meandered on the side was swollen. Much to his amusement, Gin was pulling herself up, soaked to the bone, and looking around for something on the banks, in the water, uncaring that her hair lay dripping about her soaking-wet dress.

She had been difficult to apologize to the previous year, when Thorin had threatened to sacrifice her doll to the orc-gods. Of course, he was teasing and didn't intend to do so, but that was meaningless. He asked for forgiveness (his grandfather's order), brought her a fist full of dandelions (that was Dwalin's idea), offered to share honey-oak cakes with her (his grandmother's suggestion)...

He had flatly refused his mother's suggestion of offering to carry her disgusting doll for a day. Goodness! He'd never hear the end of it from his friends - especially Reka, who was starting to get on Thorin's childish nerves.

He had whispered she was beautiful. He had heard his Papa tell his Mama that many times and that always made her sweeter and smile. Sadly, Gin looked at him as if he were a warg and informed him he better not attempt to kiss her. Kissing was disgusting!

He then prayed to Mahal that she wouldn't tell anyone.

So it was with the manners his mother insisted he have, that he swallowed his giggling (not well) and rushed to the young girl-dwarf's side. Helping her from the stream, he realized that she was looking around, becoming more and more distraught by the moment.

"Fagr! I dropped Fagr!" She didn't seem to be aware of who pulled her from the stream, as she turned back to look, desperation on such tiny features. In Thorin's young eyes, Gin was obviously terrified her beloved toy was washed away. Gazing about, Thorin saw the bright cloth of the doll's dress caught in a branch on the other side of the stream, completely submerged under the water and tangled in a fallen branch. The little dwarrow made for the water again, before being taken in hand by the King Under the Mountain.

Not really making sure she was steady on the bank, much less realizing she was well in his grandfather's hold, Thorin used the visible rocks to carefully make his way across and over the creek. Several times he stumbled, arms waving, stones wobbling, causing the dwarf prince to bobble franticly before managing to steady himself. He leaned precariously over, clinging unsteadily on to a low-hanging branch and plucked the little rag doll Gin loved so much from the water. As he raised the thing from its trap, the rock he was perched on shifted, causing him to leap into the stream. Frigid cold water overflowed into his boots, which made him scream and Thorin ran as best he could through the knee - high water to the bank.

"You saved Fagr!" Gin's respect and admiration of Thorin was immediately elevated from forað - a monster - to her forða - her savior.

Thorin basked in the immediate glow of her smile, bouncing in his boots, causing them to squish and bitter water to ooze over the tops. Holding up the doll, he saw that it was soaked clear through and heavy with fluid. In an attempt to dry it out, he squeezed and to Gin's horror, began to wring water from the waist of the doll.

"NOOOOOOOO!" With a lurch, she jerked from Thrór's grasp, and grabbed the doll from a shocked Thorin. "You'll hurt her!" Young emotions went from one extreme to the other for both young dwarves, as Gin sadly inspected her soaked, injured Fagr and Thorin looked at his grandfather in distress.

Thrór shook his head. Females. Who would ever understand them? He certainly didn't and Mahal knew he loved his wife. There were times hunting orcs was preferable to dealing with her. "Come. Both of you are cold and soaked to the skin." He opened his outer robes, beckoning to both children. "Off with your boots and onto mine."

Thorin knew what that meant! Quickly, he toed his boots off.

"Woolens as well."

Gin was watching Thorin with a scowl. "What are you doing?"

He sat down to pull off his stockings. "Taking off my boots and woolens." He snarled back. "Like the king commanded you to!" He stuffed the socks down into the wet boots.

Thrór shut his eyes and shook his head_. 'These two are starting off as badly as my beloved Kveykva and I.' _He forced a smile and spoke gently, his voice a soft rumble. "As your king has requested, young Megin." Funny, Thorin noticed, she didn't bristle when his grandfather called her by her full name. "You are both blue and wet and I would wrap you in my outer robes, let you ride my boots back to Erebor so you would not catch cold, least either of your mothers declare me a bad parent and a worse king." He shook his coat, the fur on his regular clothing now looking warm and inviting. "I say we go to the kitchen and roar like a three - headed beast and just take the honey oat cakes!"

Which they did, much to the amusement of the dwarf lords and guards along the entrance.

Kveykva rolled her eyes at the sight of her husband in his state chain mail and robes, invading her kitchen, with two young dwarves, their heads peering from his bejeweled and armored coat, riding his boots and growling and bellowing like a three - headed cold - drake. She did the only thing a Dwarf Queen could do when threatened by such a wretched beast. She threw her hands up in mock horror, begged for mercy and offered them freshly baked sugary cakes to appease their terrible temper. She then let them stuff themselves with the sweets as she knew it would be a losing argument if she tried to stop them.

_tbc_


	5. 04 - His Crown Shall be Upholden

_**Chapter 04**_

_**His crown shall be upholden**_

_Human years - age 6_

The sun was down, not that it was ever seen inside in this deep in the mountain. The underground city was winding down, dinner was over, the dwelling of Thráin, son of Thrór, was settling in for the night.

Með, Thráin's beloved, slowly waddled into the main living area and carefully sat in the reclining chaise. She was heavy, large with child, Kveykva swearing this child too, would be a male child; another fine dwarven warrior of Durin's line.

Kveykva had laid hands on many pregnant dwarves and 'saw' the sex, the power, the weaknesses of the child. Her face had darkened for a moment when she laid hands on Með this very morning, but the shade was gone, covered quickly. Með forced herself to dismiss the thought, praying it was only the shadows in the room, playing tricks on an expectant mother.

She sighed.

"What is wrong?" Thráin held a missive in his hands. Whether it was a request from Dale, or another town, a king, a ruler, and elf, or a demand, as the ruling Crown Prince of Erebor, second only to his father, the king, it was his current responsibility to keep the paperwork running smoothly. And a city the size of Erebor accrued more than its fair share of paperwork! "Do I need to send for the midwife or my mother-queen?" Með was close to her time, very close. This babe looked to be as large as his brother, who now should lie sleeping in his chambers.

Should be, but that was another story.

"'Tis nothing." Með sighed again.

Thráin threw his scroll down on the table in ire. "Damn it, lass! Either tell me what bothers you so I can fix it or stop this nonsense! Do I need to send for the midwife?"

"No." She struggled, attempting to lean over to her sewing basket, clothing for the new baby in partial arrays of incompleteness.

Thráin glared, something he rarely did with his wife. Watching her for a few moments, grasping clumsily at the air above her basket, he stretched, seizing the woven tub, bright colorful skeins of yarn, filling the basket. "Where is Groðkona?" Með had no lap to speak of, so the Prince pulled his footstool over to her chair and lifted her swollen feet onto it. Seeing they were quite larger than normal, he lifted them a bit, settling on the ottoman and placing them in his lap, removed her stockings and began to rub.

"I sent Ona home for the evening. She has a family of her own to take care of." Now that the basket was settled on her knees, she lifted the needles from the rounds of yarn, and picked up a partially completed sweater. This babe was arriving in a cold season.

Thráin squeezed a bit tight. "We have discussed this. We have rooms for servants and I do not wish to have to leave you to fetch the midwife when your time comes."

"Tomorrow," she whispered. She was tired, her belly rock hard and even Thráin was aware that this babe she carried wouldn't be much longer coming into the world. "I just wanted one more night of just us before we were invaded again by servants and healers and your mother and father."

Thráin continued working on her toes. "Is that why you are in such a melancholy mood?"

"No," she looked up from her knitting to her husband. "'Tis about Thorin."

This stopped Thráin from his ministrations. "What?" He looked back at her in shock. "Do you think he won't accept this babe? Become jealous?" He sat up, stretching to his full height. "Did he say something?"

Með set her knitting on top of her stomach. "Aye, he said something, but not what you think. Certainly not about his new brother or sister." She smiled wanly. "He is growing up too fast, Thráin," she admitted. "In a few days, he will no longer be my baby, our baby, much less a baby. He will have sudden, new responsibilities and I hurt to see that happen." She dropped her head. "You should spend more time with him. He asked me something this evening when I tucked him in that I couldn't answer. I don't know how to answer him."

"What was it?" Thráin was concerned. This was obviously more than a female's worrying. "What did he ask? What do you wish me to do?"

"I told him you would speak with him. It is a question a male-dwarfling should ask his father." She nodded towards Thorin's chambers. "He might still be awake."

Thráin gently set his wife's feet on the footstool and stood up. "I'll go check on our son. See if he's asleep."

Með nodded and watched as her husband picked up a lamp and left the room. She put a hand to her side and pushed the offending foot back in place. "Just like your brother. You'll have your father's huge feet."

Thráin moved as softly as possible down the hall. He cracked the door to his son's room open, light from his globe spilling gently over the boy's bed. As his wife expected, Thorin lay, both hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, where glittering gems sparkled like fireflies in the lamp-light. "Thorin?"

"Yes, Papa?" He didn't move as Thráin came into the room, lit his own lamp and pulling the chair on the wall to his bedside, sat heavily in it. He simply watched his father.

Sometimes, Thráin was jealous of his father, Thrór. At times, it seemed the boy's grandfather, the King Under the Mountain, had a stronger, closer bond with his son than he did. Of course, he knew this was not true, but there were times, he wished he could leave off a day of work to spend time with him. Thrór never seemed to worry about slipping out, to look over his grandson and heir, catch him pulling pigtails and threatening or saving a little dwarf-girl's doll, taking him out in the early spring to see the wildflowers grow and bringing him back, soaking wet. Thorin would talk about those escapades with his grandfather for days afterwards and Thráin wanted some of that bonding for himself. As he settled into the chair, he promised himself, he was going to take that time, time he and Thorin would need, time to reassure him that even with the new babe, he was still important to him and his mother. He was old enough now to take fishing, hunting, time he learned to set a snare for a rabbit...

...tell the difference between bear-spore and warg-spore... and what the stench of an Orc was.

"Papa?" Thorin's voice was a bit stronger. "Is something wrong?"

"Oh," he replied with a bit of forced jovialness, "just wanting to talk to you We don't spend enough time together, you and I." Thorin looked at the tall dwarf earnestly. "We need to go fishing soon. Hunting. Spelunking strange caves." He pumped his fist. "You know, Dwarf stuff."

Thorin nodded. "Aye." His eyes brightened up. "When?"

"In the spring." He noticed Thorin's look of disappointment. "But we will find things to do together during the winter. With the new baby coming-"

"Mama will be too busy for me."

Thráin's eyes closed. Með's fear was justified. "Aye, she will be busy, but she will still love you. So will I." Seeing that Thorin was not believing what his father was telling him, he added, "Being a big brother is an important job. You'll have to teach him things. You know, things like-"

"Grandmother's honey oat cakes and sweet nuts!"

Thráin smiled. "Aye. And making tents under the covers. We will go talk to your grandfather and see if perhaps you can come with me during the day. We'll find some mischief to get into!"

Now Thorin grinned. If anyone knew anything about mischief, it was his grandfather! "Tomorrow?"

"Aye! Tomorrow!" Thráin stood up and tucking Thorin in a bit tighter, he sat on the edge of the furs. "Thorin. What... did you ask your mother earlier?"

"You mean the question she said I should ask you?" Damn, if the dwarfling's eyes weren't starting to get heavy.

"Aye."

He blinked rapidly several times, the irises changing to a steel gray. ""Tis nothing."

"Thorin."

He thought for a moment. "Well, I asked her..." his voice wandered off.

"Aye?"

Even tucked in, Thráin could see his son steeling himself. He had a look in his eye. "I want to know why my dangly stands straight up when I think about Gin. Or when I see her."

Thráin gasped for breath. Oh, this _was_ much too soon to be discussing this... "Well... your... dangly is just happy to see her."

Thorin's brow furrowed. "Happy? But it hurts!"

Thráin's hand was up. "Yes, I know, but trust me. It's just part of... you being happy to see her."

Thorin's brow creased further, anger now on the child's face. "Happy? Then I should cut it off as I don't like her a bit!"

Thráin winced. "Oh, I think you do like her a little bit." He leaned forward, his thumb and forefinger a hair apart. "Perhaps just a wee bit."

His son sank down in to the furs, his fingers peaking over the edge as he pulled them up to his chin. "Maybe a little," he agreed reluctantly. Thráin pressed the issue, his fingers pushed a bit closer to his son. "A little," the child finally agreed. "So, should I tell her my dangly is happy to see her, even though I am not?" One side of his mouth lifted in a snarl. "She doesn't like me, maybe she'll like my dangly."

"Noooo." Thráin shook his head. "Say nothing. Just keep this a secret between you and your dangly." Thorin began to yawn and nodded. He rolled over to his side as his father yet again tucked the furs around him closer. "Close your eyes, Thorin, burr innan minn hugr. Mahal is sending his sandr-dwarf to make your eyes heavy." He blew the child's light-globe out and stood in front of the door as his child began to nod off. He slid the door open, ready to ease out.

"Papa?"

"Yes, Thorin?"

"Does your dangly get happy when you are with Mama?"

Thráin swallowed hard. "Go to sleep, Thorin." He eased from the room, closing the door behind him. He stood there for some minutes, lamenting that yes, his son was growing up, growing up fast and curious about the things about him. He was jolted from his musings when his wife's voice and shadow fell across the passageway.

"Thráin? Did you speak to him?"

"Aye."

"And?"

Thráin pumped his fist. "YES! That's my boy!"

Með's smile was pained. "I am glad you are so proud." Thráin stopped his merriment at the strained sound in her voice and bringing the lamp down, he saw her dress was wet below her waist. "Do you think you can stop for a moment and go get the midwife and your mother?" She inhaled sharply. " 'Tis going to be a long night."

_tbc_

_burr innan__ minn __hugr_ - Son-of-my-heart (Son within my heart)

_sandr-dwarf_ - Sanddwarf


	6. 05 - His Harp shall be restrung

_**Chapter 05**_

_**His Harp shall be restrung**_

_Age equivalent - 11 human years_

Thorin ran through the Halls under the mountain, excited, joyous. The snows from the mountain had finally retreated, the sun was out, bright and the streams were swollen. Fish! There would be fish for supper!

If he could catch it!

His grandmother said to try the throne room, but he wasn't there. There were no guests expected, no Elves; Thranduil wouldn't come until the spring equinox, still some weeks away. He found his father in the gem room, overseeing the newest gems mined. "I don't know, Thorin." Suddenly, his eyebrows drew down. "Wait. I do know. The vaults. Try the vaults."

This worried Thorin more than he wanted to let on. As of late, his grandfather spent more and more time in the vaults, doing Mahal knew what.

The closer he got to the vaults, so deep within the mountain, the heavier and slower his feet became. As he came to the doors, two dwarven guards stood in front, their long pikes crossed in front.

"Sorry, Prince Thorin. The king does not wish to be disturbed."

"But it's me. His grandson." He held up his and his grandfather's fishing poles. "It's spring. We always go fishing in the early spring."

Both shook their heads. Obviously, the king's orders overrode the prince's.

Thorin backed into the shadows, thinking, wondering...

_Wait! There was a secret entrance into the vaults. It was tight, really an air passage._ But he knew of it...

Quickly he made his way around the corridors, and after leaning the poles against the wall, he shimmied up to the long abandoned passageway. He frightened a rat or two climbing up and smushed a hairy spider with his hand. After much grunting, swearing under his breath, he managed to creep slowly down the air passage and to the vault.

As he tumbled over the edge, he landed on a tall pile of gold, disturbing the neat stack that cushioned his fall. He slid down the pile with a loud 'oof'.

"Who is there?" Thrór roared and turned the corner, in Thorin's direction.

"It's just me," Thorin called out. He slid off a boot, shaking gold coins and a few sapphires from it. _Damn, they hurt to walk on!_

"What are you doing here?" Thrór didn't appear to be appeased or particularly happy to see him and that caused Thorin's shoulders to sag. There was a fire of something... not sane... in the Dwarf King's eyes, something that frightened Thorin, deep down.

"It's the first warm day of spring. We always go fishing." Thorin still had that hopeful, child-like smile, one that he would grow out of eventually.

Thrór turned back to his growing mountain of treasure. "I am very busy."

Thorin was not so easily swayed or distracted. He _was _his grandfather's grandson and he had his mien. "It will still be here tonight, will it not?"

Thrór stood there for some time, looking at the ever-growing pile of riches.

"Please?"

For a moment, Thorin was afraid he would send him away, off to greet the spring by himself, but the dwarf turned around and smiled. "You are correct." He pulled off his outer robe and dropped it on a pile, causing the stack of gold to slide and shift. "It will still be here." He held out his arm out to his grandson, who joined him with a happy grin. "We should find your father. I'll bet Thráin hasn't been fishing in a long time."

As Thorin ran down the corridor to retrieve their fishing poles, Thrór sent a guard to fetch his son and then turned to the remaining guard. "When we leave, locate the air vent my grandson slid through and seal it up." The guard nodded. "Make sure there are no other ways into the vault." He smiled when he heard Thorin come back around the curve of the hall and enveloped him in a huge bear hug. "Now, we'll go catch some trout for your mother to fry up!"

Neither noticed the lone guard shaking his head in sorrow as the two scurried off.

_tbc_


	7. 06 - His Halls shall echo Golden

_**Chapter 06**_

_**His Halls shall echo Golden**_

_Age equivalent - 16 human years._

Thorin was growing to be a handsome, strapping dwarf.

And all the young female dwarves - and truth be told, the older ones as well - knew it. It didn't matter that he was the Prince, the eventual heir, third direct in line to the throne. They didn't care. Regardless of his status, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, was going to be some lucky dwarf-girl's dream catch and everyone knew it.

Except Gin.

Which infuriated Thorin to no end, as she was the one he set his eyes on the most. When there was a gathering, he looked for her, sought her out.

She barely acknowledged him. She liked to dance and spar and debate with Balin, stodgy and old before his time, but beloved to his brother and Thorin himself, to be quite honest.

She arm-wrestled with Dwalin, who claimed he simply liked her cookies and other baked goods and there was nothing more to it.

Dwalin had a sweet-tooth. And she was not his type.

But who or what was Dwalin's type was anyone's guess, including Thorin, who had yet to figure it out.

There was a harvest carnival coming up, in the city of Dale. As with all of the festivals, the dwarves were invited, welcomed, encouraged to attend, join in, and be a part of the festivities. It was a well known fact that dwarves liked to party, and they partied hard. No one could best them for their singing and playing of instruments. Out-drinking them could not be done and woe be to the man who tried. It was something all looked forward to.

Thorin and Dwalin were especially looking forward to it. For the first time, they would be allowed, even encouraged, to take a date, to find a young dwarf maiden to accompany them.

In Thorin's case, his father all but ordered him to find a girl, a nice dwarf girl, from a nice dwarf family and not some ...painted human... from the tavern!

Dwalin found that amusing. But Dwalin found most things amusing these days. He was smiling a lot. Thorin thought it was because he was looking forward to his first Orc Raid, something Thorin himself was looking forward to.

The two of them were wrestling in the upper caverns, along with several other younger dwarves; Reka and his brothers, Steinn and Ljósta **.** Much to Thorin's disgust, a large group of females were on the side, supposedly to judge the stronger males, but in actuality, they were openly oogling the sweaty, hard bodies of the young combatants. All save Gin, who sat in a corner, watching the bats hanging in the top of the cavern.

Thorin tackled Dwalin. "So, have you asked someone to the Harvest Festival?"

"Aye." Dwalin flipped his friend, almost pinning him in the process.

"Who?" The Prince slipped free from his friend's meaty grasp and reversed their positions, much to the vocal appreciation of the female populace.

There was grunting, before Thorin realized his friend was laughing - an evil sound, to be sure. Thorin found their positions reversed, as Dwalin pinned his arms behind his back.

Again, Thorin sprang free from the hold. His grandfather taught him that for every hold, there is a counter-hold. It was a well-known fact that the older the dwarf, the more tenacious and tougher a warrior he became. Age was a strengthening factor for a dwarf, not a slowing down, as with the humans. The older a dwarf became, the more battle-hardened, stronger, dangerous he became. The greatest warriors in Erebor had steel-gray hair and beards that tucked into their belts. Mahal created them that way because Melkor still walked the earth that was not part of Aman when their Fathers first drew breath.

Small wonder the Elves thought that Dwarves turned to stone upon their deaths.

Thorin shook his hair back, something he knew impressed the females. Dwalin was bent over, catching his breath, thinking Thorin was backing down for a moment. With a stealthy gleam, Thorin caught him off-guard, knocking him over and pinning him to the mat for the designated count.

"Not fair!" Dwalin rolled over, wheezing. "You caught me off guard!"

Thorin held out a hand. "Orcs don't fight fair, my friend!" He pulled his friend up. "Who are you taking to the faire?"

"A date," Dwalin responded cagily. "Who are you taking?"

Thorin stretched and scratched the part of his back he could reach. "I'm thinking of asking Gin."

"Thinking?" Dwalin turned him around and scratched the part his friend was trying to get to. "You haven't asked yet?"

"No. Should I be in a hurry?"

Dwalin was staring at him in astonishment. "The faire is in three days. All the girls have dates already."

Thorin looked back in horror. "All of them?" Not his Gin. Please, Mahal, not his Gin. Everyone knew he was sweet on her. Every one except her, that is.

"Aye. You might want to ask her now."

But when Thorin looked up to the spot where he last saw Gin sitting, she was gone.

_~~~...~~~_

Thorin wiped down quickly, taking a good deal of the sweat from him. He threw on his tunic and rushed from the arena, looking for her.

"She went that-a-way." Dwalin, still sweaty and shirtless, was leaning against the cavern wall. He pointed towards the gem cutters, where her father worked, in charge of deciding what crafted gems to keep for Erebor and what to sell or give away as gifts. Most men could not tell a true jewel from a simple, but flawed, sparkly.

Rumor had it Thrór was becoming stingy in his elder years.

Thorin knew it was no rumor.

"Her father?"

"That way," Dwalin reiterated, his finger curving to the right, past the gem cutters' cavern and onwards towards the Gate. "Outside."

Of course, outside. In the gardens. Gin was the strangest lady - well almost lady - dwarf Thorin had ever known. Dwarves liked their caves and caverns, were comfortable and at home in those dark and dank places. Orcs and other foul creatures knew not to follow them into such, because to fight a dwarf in his element was to invite death.

Fighting a dwarf out of his element was to court death as well, but within a dwarven grotto, death was almost certain.

Gin bloomed in a garden, in the sunshine. Springtime was her element, her time and she glowed during the harvest.

And the mountain wild field was where Thorin found her. It was the spot where he and his grandfather came when he was young, to watch the clouds, mock the Elves - that is before his grandfather found more important things to do.

_Like counting and running his fingers through his gold, mithril and precious gems..._

So Thorin found her, plucking weeds and dead things from the ground in that space she deemed hers. He stood watching her; surely she knew he was there, his shadow cast over her. She continued, not noticing or ignoring him, the sound of her scissors clipping and snapping in the breeze.

Probably ignoring him. Of all the dwarf-girls, this one pretended he did not exist and of course, she was the one he wanted.

She probably still blamed him for trying to wring her doll's neck, when he was simply trying to squeeze the water out of her.

He cleared his throat.

Twice.

Finally she looked up, shading her eyes. "Thorin?"

All of a sudden, after rehearsing this conversation, practicing in the looking glass, and even on his pet mús, Grarm, much to the amusement of his younger brother and the curled-lipped disgust of his sister, who promptly went and tattled on him (and who got her arse swotted for being a tattle-tale!) his mouth went dry and all words left him.

"Hi, Gin." He lifted a hand and wiggled his fingers, feeling very, very, very...

_...stupid._

She returned to her weeding and beheading dead flowers. "What brings you outside?" She plucked the dried head from flower rather harshly, causing Thorin to squirm. Thorin could see she was watching him from the side of her face.

"You." He plopped down next to her.

Gin never stopped. "I figured you would still be showing off in front of the other dwarrows."

"Keep a secret?" He thought he saw her shrug and took that as an 'aye'. "They're boring."

Gin's eyes slid sideways for a moment. _Was that shock?_ "That's not very nice."

Now it was Thorin's turn to shrug. "It's true." Gin returned to her weeding and Thorin felt oddly dismissed. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

_Ignore me?_

The truth was difficult, so he stated the obvious. "Tend to the wildflowers?"

"I planted these!" She flung her scissors to the ground and sat back on her knees, hands at her waist. "I planted them!" She slung her hands out and began to name them, the flowers, the bushes, the vines, rattled them off as easily as his father and grandfather named gems and stones and metals. As Thorin lay back and stretched out to watch her, he realized she took as much joy in her planted things as the rest of the dwarves took pleasure in mining. He found it...

"Odd."

"What?" He didn't see it, but she smiled to herself.

"That you like to grow things."

"I like to dig in the dirt. You like to dig in the rock. Not really much difference." Gin scooped up a handful of rich soil and showed it to him. "This came from the rock, the trees, the plants. It washed down from the top of the mountain, ash spewed from the Mountain's Deepest Forge."

Thorin spoke up as if speaking to a dwarfling. "If Mahal wanted us to dig in the dirt-"

"Mahal's wife digs in the dirt, Thorin." Gin focus returned to the plat in which she worked. "I suspect he understands, after all, he created us for this world; certainly not for the Elves." Her voice dropped. "Besides, I suspect she loves us too. I hear the elders tell that we get our stubbornness from him. I would think she loves his stubbornness, therefore, she loves ours."

"You make it sound as if we are her children as well."

Gin raised an eyebrow, smirked at him, and then returned to her gardening. "What do you want, Thorin?"

The princeling rolled over on his side, to face her, his arm cushioned under his head. "What makes you think I want something?"

"You forget," she whispered coquettishly, "we were cradle-mates."

"Aw, surely you do not believe that tale our mothers tell."

"Yes, I do and you do as well." She now shook her garden scissors at him. "I remember well the taste of your thumb!" She leaned to the side. "Bleh! Now, what do you want?"

"You know," Thorin was tracing his fingers in the dirt, "there is a faire in three days."

"Yes, I know. Who are you taking?"

A lock of Thorin's hair fell over his eyes. He shook it back over his shoulder. "I'm asking you."

Gin dropped her gardening tool into the dirt. "Thorin, Reka asked me some days past."

The prince shrugged. "Of course, you told him no."

"No, I didn't tell him no. I accepted his invitation."

_Reka? Reka had a nasty, notorious reputation among the male dwarves his age. Many would prefer fight him rather than allow him near their sisters. _

Thorin tried not to let his ire or his panic show. "You must tell him you've changed your mind."

"Why?" Gin sat up on her knees and thrust her hands on her hips. "Because you finally came down off your high and mighty throne to ask someone after everyone has been asked? I don't think so!"

_Mahal! Must the girl be so stubborn?_

"Gin, right now, I don't care if you go with me or not-"

"Well, I'm certainly not going with you!"

"-but Reka..."

"Reka what?"

"Reka brags about his... well... you know..."

"His conquests? It's rubbish and I know it for a fact. Pure rubbish and I can take care of myself." She jumped to her feet and grabbing her clippers, prepared to step around Thorin in a huff. Thorin was up as fast as she and he reached out and took ahold of her arm.

"Gin, please. Don't go with him."

"I will and you can't stop me." She jerked her arm from his grasp. "He's just a braggart!"

Thorin grabbed her again. "Then why did you agree to go with him if you know what he is?"

Gin's face screwed up into a livid mask. "Because you hadn't asked me!" With that admission, her face fell. "I waited. I waited and waited for you to ask me and you didn't. So I said yes to Reka." With this, she slugged him hard, angrily. "And to back out now would be rude!" With that she spun and ran down the hill, disappearing around the bend.

Thorin stood there in shock for the longest time. As he started down the same path, he looked down to find Gin's clippers. He picked them up and after weighing them in his hand, he clutched them to him and took the same path Gin had taken minutes before.

Both Dwalin and Balin met him inside the gate. The sun was going down and only the fact that Dwalin told the guard that the Prince was still out in the gardens, was the only reason it wasn't shut and barred for the evening.

"Lad, we saw Gin run through here." Balin was, even at a young age, old for his time, wise and insightful. And already a fierce warrior. He had been on two orc raids, distinguishing himself within the party. "The lass looked none too happy."

"Reka got to her first." Thorin growled. "She won't back out, despite his reputation." He paused for a moment, tapping his booted foot. "I'll just have to shadow her the entire faire."

"And do what?" Dwalin spoke up.

"Make sure he doesn't touch her." With that last bit spat, Thorin stalked into the mountain.

"Brother," Balin whispered, "you have a look in your eyes."

Dwalin grunted.

"A look I dinna like."

Dwalin's responding grin was slow. Low in his throat, he began to laugh, an wicked sound, before he followed his best friend down the corridor. Balin rubbed his eyes.

"That's what I was afraid of."

And then he too, followed his brother and his prince, deep into the Lonely Mountain.

_tbc_

_fierce - grarm _

_hrodi - snot (Old Norse)_


	8. 07 - To song of yore resung

_**Chapter 07**_

_**To song of yore resung**_

_Human Age Equivalent; 16_

For the next few days, Thorin sulked about like no one had ever seen. His mother fretted, his siblings stayed away, especially Dís. He had been in such a fowl mood after his talk with Gin, he went straight to his chambers and sat on the edge of his bed, refusing dinner.

"Your son hasn't eaten!" Með whispered to Thráin. "Do you know what's wrong?"

"Munuð-kvilla," her husband whispered back, shaking his head mournfully.

She threw her hands up. "Hormones!"

Thráin nodded his head in sullen agreement. _Humans,_ he thought to himself morosely, _had it easy. They only go through a few hormonal years, unlike the Dwarven twenty-five to thirty! _

The next evening was worse. Thorin came home, scratched, scraped up and bloodied.

"What happened to you, hrodi-flík?" Thorin's brother, Frerin, was unhappy his older brother was to be allowed to wander Dale freely with his friends after dark, while he was still considered a child. Despite the fact Thorin had closed off the opening to his chambers, the door didn't quite shut and Frerin followed him in, much to Thorin's disgust.

"Shut up." Thorin pulled off his ragged tunic and threw it in the wastebasket, new wounds and bruises now showing.

Seeing the injuries his brother carried, Frerin now grew concerned. "Who'd you get in a fight with?" He sidled up to him, irritation turning to alarm and revenge. "Who cornered you? We'll go after him together!"

Dís heard the commotion, the whispering going on in Thorin's chambers. She peeked in and gasped. "MAMA! Thorin's all beat up!"

"Mahal," Thorin whispered under his breath. "Remind me to shut and bar the door from now on."

"Thorin?" The door crashed further open as Með rushed the room. Pushing Frerin aside, she began to inspect her eldest child, no matter that he was not really a child and taller than her. Gently seizing his chin, she turned his face back and forth. "Dís, get me a hot cloth, a pan of hot, soapy water and my healer's kit-"

"Mother!" Thorin jerked his head to the side. "'Tis not that bad."

"'Tis not that good!" She grabbed him again. "Stop acting like a child and let me look." She turned his face from side to side. "Fernin, go put water on for tea. Now." She waited until she heard the door move. "Something tells me," she lowered her voice, "that this didn't happen in the practice yard wrestling or sparring with practice weapons." She watched as her son's face hardened. "I thought not. Either you and Dwalin had words," Thorin scowled at that, "which I doubt as that one would follow you into the very fires of Mahal's forge, or you came to blows with Balin," Thorin's scowl turned into a snarl, "which I doubt because you revere him as an older brother and you should, or you came to blows with the young dwarf taking Gin to the faire." Thorin now began to howl. "I thought so!" Now she growled angrily. "Fighting! Thorin! You are heir to the throne! A prince!" Thorin turned away from her so she wouldn't see him mimicking her. "I know what you're doing!" Með was not a stupid dwarf, having done the same thing herself, growing up. She knew no punishment she could come up with would faze her son, so she went a step further. "Just wait until your father gets home!"

So Thorin missed supper, cleaned up, ointments and salves on his face, his arms, his back and drinking nothing but willow bark tea. He sat on the edge of the furs, back to the doorway, glaring the walls into submission.

He was not aware when his father arrived nor did he hear the door shut behind him.

"Thorin?"

"What?" It was sullen, snarling, a foreshadowing of what his voice would become.

"Turn around, let me look, so I can yell at you like your mother thinks I should and then we can discuss this, dwarf to dwarf." Thorin did as his father bid, most of the bruising hidden in the shade of the room. His eye had now turned black and his look matched it. Thráin inhaled. "Alright." He rolled his eyes. "Ready?" Thorin nodded. Thráin drew in.

"THORIN! HOW COULD YOU! YOU ARE A PRINCE OF EREBOR! MY HEIR AND WILL BE KING UNDER THE MOUNTAIN SOMEDAY! ENGAGING IN COMMON FIGHTING! ARGH!" Thráin shook his head. "That," he said quietly, "should appease your mother somewhat and make your siblings believe that I am thoroughly disgusted and you are getting your comeuppance." At that, the dwarf came around the furs and sat down next to his son. He saw that the young dwarf-prince's hand was cupped close to his body and in the large palm sat a little grey mús, Thorin casually stroking its head. The act seemed to be calming to his eldest son. Thráin reached over and scratched its ear. "Greetings, Grarm, brave and sturdy warrior!" For a moment, Thorin's mouth lifted in what would pass as an almost smile. "I have seen Reka. His father pulled me out from the sorting room highly aggrieved that Erebor's Prince has no self-control."

"He started it."

"So I gathered and so how you would see it. Dwalin and Balin both were quite vocal about the altercation. Yes, I spoke to them." With his son growling, Thráin leaned over and put his head next to Thorin's. "Reka looks bad; you most definitely got the upper hand. I am glad you can fend for yourself in a fight." Thorin started to snicker at the hard won praise, but ended up grimacing for the movement irritated his eye. "Thorin," Thráin continued quietly. "You _are_ a prince of Erebor. When I am king, you will be the Crown Prince and eventually, King." Although he said nothing, with his own father sliding deeper into Dragon Sickness, Thráin feared he would become king sooner than later and the truth was, he had no desire to be king at all. He wasn't sure that he wanted that burden weighing down on his son, either. "You must learn to turn aside from goading, see it for the cry for attention that it is. Yes!" He stopped Thorin's interruption. "He goaded you. He is taking the Dwarf-girl you desire to the faire. _You_ should have asked her sooner. This will be a lesson to you; do not wait when it comes to the object of your affections."

Thorin slumped. "I know, it's just-"

"Reka and his father have been told quite explicitly that Reka's bragging about his so-called exploits are well-known and will not be tolerated. No self-respecting dwarf will tolerate such nonsense and no mature fully grown dwarf will feel the need to brag. In fact, had she had an older brother, he would have administered the beating and I told both of them so." Thráin patted his son on the knee. "I believe Reka's father will have a long talk with him as well. If anyone asks, you were simply tired of his bragging about adventures he hasn't had." As he stood up, Thráin turned to look at his son, who was still stroking the little mús. "Aye. Reka took the harsher beating. Good on you. Be prepared if it backfires in the face of Gin." He took in Thorin's look of shock. "Females are strange. You never know what they are going to think when you defend their honor. I'll tell your mother to send you a slab of beef. You can eat it or put it on your eye."

And with that, the Dwarf left his son in the growing darkness with his thoughts.

**~~~...~~~**

The day of the Faire dawned bright and warm, the promise of a cooling breeze blowing gently in the wind. Reka had stayed out of Thorin's way, his sight.

Thorin was seen in the training arena, taking his ire out on those who chose to challenge him; namely Dwalin, who understood his friend's ire and inner rage. He wrestled with Balin, as well, one who never seemed to let his temper get in the way of his gentle nature.

Gin would not speak to him at all. She turned her nose up at him and flounced - if dwarves could flounce, that one did - off, her female friends imitating her and following behind her like a row of ducks.

_So much for defending a female's honor._

When it came time to leave for the faire, Dwalin and Balin were both lagging. Thorin didn't want to go down into Dale alone, but the way they were dragging their booted feet...

Finally - after Thorin threatened to leave them behind - they made their way down the long gangway from the Lonely Mountain towards Dale, Thorin anxious to find Gin and keep an eye on her all night.

More than once, Balin patted him on the shoulder. "Dinna worry, lad. Gin will be safe t'night."

"How can you be so sure?"

Balin nodded ahead, the back of Gin with her parents and her young brother before them. "Looks t'me as if the lassie dinnit have a date after all."

Thorin followed Balin's pointing, not realizing Dwalin was snickering. "She's alo-" He stopped himself from galloping down the huge granite walkway. This wasn't right. "Balin! What did you do?" he whispered.

"I did nothing, laddie," Balin responded in an undertone. "Dwalin, I think on the other hand..."

"Dwalin?" It was an accusatory question.

"I have a date waiting for me in Dale." Dwalin tried to break free from his friend and brother. "I best be movin' on."

Thorin grabbed him as he went passed and held fast. "What did you do? And worse, will I be blamed for it?"

"I'm not thinking, you bake cookies, d'ya now?"

"Oh no." Balin turned ashen.

"What did you do?" If anything, Thorin's grip became tighter.

Dwalin stopped pulling and rolled his eyes. "Did y'know that corin seed, when pounded into a mash and heated, turns into a clear liquid and is tasteless?"

_Corin seed corin seed corin seed corin seeeeee_... Thorin's jaw dropped when he finally realized. "You made him cookies with corin seed juice baked in?" He popped his hand over his mouth.

"I told 'im Gin made 'em."

Thorin was now pretty giddy. "Oh! He'll never ask her out again!" He started to run ahead, to catch up to Gin, but stopped himself. "Remind me, never to make you angry."

"I've yer back, Thorin. My grandfather has your grandfather's back, my father has your father's back and now I've yer back. Now, off wit' you! Go enjoy yourself!" He shoved Thorin towards Gin. He and his brother watched as Thorin bounced ahead, up to Gin and her family and then after exchanging pleasantries, moved on ahead with Gin.

"How much corin seed did y'put inna mix?"

"I replaced the water wit' it."

Balin was horrified. "Great Mahal's Anvil! That much will give him the galloping shites!"

"And then some." Dwalin was completely unapologetic. "Thorin won't worry, yew kin enjoy yerself an' I," he rubbed his hands together, "have someone waitin' on me." With that, the young, burly dwarf took off.

Balin watched him take off. "I have a feelin' our parents 'twill not be pleased."

_~~~...~~~_

The food was plenty, the mead and ale was heady, and while the younger ones were tuckered out and starting to whine, those with a loved one, whether they had been with them for years or it was someone new or special, were trying to find quieter places.

Thorin had explored the town on many occasions, coming down with his father, his grandfather, and yes, his mother. This little courtyard was out of the way; one could still see the main square from the opening, the noise from the festivities, muted. It had a small fountain, the tinkling of the water, a quiet music. There was a bright array of mums surrounding the little yard, small benches here and there.

Thorin and Gin sat in the shadows to the left of the fountain, hands held tightly. They had danced, eaten, danced more, sang, danced some more, until both were breathless, and happily worn out. The music drifted into the small alcove, the birds cooing in a potted tree behind them.

It made for a very romantic atmosphere.

"This is a horrible thing to say," Gin whispered, "but I'm glad Reka got sick." Thorin leaned closer to hear her, she spoke so quietly. "To be honest, I don't like him a bit."

"Then why did you agree to go with him?"

Her scowl marred her features. "We've discussed this."

"Aye. We have."

There was a light touch on Thorin's face and he almost jumped, until he realized that it was the back of Gin's hand. "Your stubble is coming in nicely."

He slowly moved his face nearer to hers. "Really?"

She nodded once and then let her fingertips trace the edge of his eye, still bruised from the fight. "Why did this happen?"

Thorin ducked his head, attempting to hide the blush that he could feel on his cheeks. "Reka was bragging and not nicely."

"Goading you."

"Aye."

_Closer... closer..._

Just when he was so close, he could feel her breath, she pulled back, her eyes no longer fluttering shut. "Thorin?" It was a breathy whisper. "_Who_ is that with Dwalin?"

He put his arm around her and pulled her closer. "I don't know. I don't care."

Gin put both hands on his chest. "Thorin!" Seeing he was not to be deterred, she grabbed him by his front braids and pulled his ear down to her mouth. "He's here with a _woman!_"

All thoughts of a first kiss went flying up with the butterflies. Keeping focused on Gin, he whispered back. "Where?"

"On the other side of the fountain. I don't think they see... oh Mahal! I know they don't see us! I can see them over your shoulder."

"Which one?"

She tapped his left shoulder. Thorin slowly turned to look over...

_DEAR MAHAL!_

Dwalin was so wrapped up, one could not tell where he began, she ended and where the shadows intertwined them.

The woman squealed. "Oh Dwalin! What thick arms..." The rest was lost and now Gin was thumping her head against Thorin's chest.

The young prince gently grasped her by the elbows. "Shhh." Standing, the two crept along the shadows, to the narrow entrance, and back into the revelry. The crowd had dwindled a bit; the young ones had been taken home by their mothers, but there were still plenty who were still dancing and singing.

"Thorin!" Now that they were out of the secluded courtyard, Gin was now speaking in a normal voice. "What are we going to do?"

"Nothing." He was searching for another secluded, isolated courtyard or alley.

"Nothing? Are you insane? We can't-"

"We can!" he interjected, "I know who he is with. She is a tavern wench from the Mithril Axe Pub."

"But Thorin-"

"Gin! I would like to take you somewhere quiet and kiss you!"

For the two young dwarves, all sound stopped. Thorin wanted to kick himself. _So much for the romantic approach._

"Really?"

Thorin couldn't answer, much less nod. Gin continued to look at him strangely. Finally...

"Balin?"

"Aye, you two!" Balin materialized out of nowhere, a mug of something frothy in each hand. "I'm lookin' for Dwalin, but he seems to have disappeared. I have a-" he finally looked at the two, Gin's amusement and Thorin's uncomfortable blush. He handed both mugs over to Thorin. "You two look as if you need a bit of coolin' off." He smiled knowingly. "There is a quiet, dark square over yonder..." his voice trailed off as he nodded to where the young dwarves had just come from.

"'Tis taken."

"Is it now?" Balin was quite astute for such a young dwarf, wisdom coming early for this one. "Anyone I know?"

"Aye."

Balin's face hardened into a rare scowl. "Is he with a certain over-painted tavern wench?"

"Aye."

Balin rolled his eyes and turned away, disappearing into the crowd.

The two watched him, watched the goings on for a while, silence hanging over them.

"Do you have a curfew?" Fireworks were being set off and both made a quiet mental note of the reflection of the light in both pairs of eyes. Both mugs were finished and now dangling from thick fingers. Thorin's empty hand found Gin's empty hand and with that touch...

"Aye. I'm allowed to watch the fireworks, but I need to be home soon after."

So soon after the show was ended, the two made their way back to the Lonely Mountain.

And somewhere between the Gates of Dale and the Gates of Erebor, Thorin got his kiss.

_tbc_

_Note: There is no such thing as corin seed. I made it up! _

_Munuð- kvilla; Love-sickness_

_fierce - grarm _

_hrodi - snot (Old Norse)_

_flík - rag_

_mús - mouse_


	9. 08 - The Woods shall wave on Mountains

_**Chapter 08**_

_**The Woods shall wave on Mountains**_

_Human Age Equivalent - 21_

"Must we invite the Elves?"

"Here, Thorin. Have another turkey leg." As young as she was, Gin saw the storm brewing and she watched under lowered eyes as her mother and her future mother-in-law and her future grandmother-in-law - who just so happened to be the Queen - wink and nod appreciatively.

"They are invited, Thorin," Thrór answered swiftly. He lifted his goblet for a servant to refill. "We cannot uninvite them."

"Watch me."

"It would be rude."

"We are dwarves, are we not?"

There was twittering around the table at that pronouncement, which only made Thorin more irate.

"I do not understand why we need such a huge, elaborate, formal state wedding at all. Gin and I wanted something... private. Just the family."

The room went silent, all eyes on the bride and groom-to-be before exploding into an uproar, with the males - Gin's father, Eyða, Thrór and Thráin, bellowing as if they were ready to go to battle. Thorin expected one or both to call up the Dwarven Armies; yell '_Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!'_ and start a war over the fact they just wanted something simple. The females were red in the face and shouting at each other. Thorin knew he heard his mother - _You are a Prince of Erebor - _as if that was supposed to humble him like it did when he was younger. Gin's grandmother was yelling, after all this was her wedding as well, and shouldn't _the children's_ wishes be taken into consideration? Her mother was crying; her daughter _deserved_ a lavish wedding, every dwarf-lass dreams of her special day! It was quite a sight, the servants disappearing back into the shadows. He felt a tap on this elbow.

Gin nodded towards the door; her intent, very clear.

The two slid from the large dining room in the King's Chambers - this was an important meeting indeed - and quickly hurried to the main hall.

"We need to hide, Gin. The minute they realize we are gone-" Apparently, Gin had a place picked out and she yanked his hand, Thorin gladly following. Within minutes, he knew where they were going, where they were heading. They found the winding, hidden staircase of their youth and climbed high to the balcony, that quiet terrace where so long ago, Thrór chastised and bonded with a young, irate dwarfling who trying so hard to pretend he did not like a certain dwarf-lass.

The moon was up, full and bright. The City of Dale was lit of for the evening, fireflies winking and playing among the tulips on the mountain. Many of these flowers were being grown specially for the Prince and his Beloved's wedding.

Thorin put his arms around Gin, tucking her under his chin. "Do you want all of this?"

She sighed heavily. "No, but considering who you are..."

He hugged her tighter. "Does it matter _who_ I am? Gin." He pulled away, ducking his head to look her in the eye. "Would you marry me if I were a simple miner?"

"THORIN!" Gin turned red. "I have loved you as long as I can remember! Even when you were a monster growing up! How COULD you? Do you REALLY think that I would marry someone simply because of their status? You arrogant, self-centered, boor-"

He kissed her at the point, keeping her outburst short and softening her temper. When they come up for air, she whispered, "Do you remember what Yavannah whispered to you on your birth?"

"Aye."

"Did it concern a Dwarf? A specific dwarf?"

"Ooooh, aye!" He smiled and grabbing her by her hips, pulled her into him, grinding himself at her juncture. "And I plan on doing exactly what she told me to do the night we are joined!" Soon, they were kissing again. "You?"

"Aye." For a time, the two were unaware of anything, but each other.

"Thorin?"

"Hmmm?"

More kissing.

"Gin?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you want this huge ceremony or would you rather something... more personal, quiet?"

At this, her shoulders fell. "Aye. I do want something... just us and our families and friends, but with your family connections... truly," she rambled on, feeling his sigh, "if it were just the Dwarves, I would be fine. I don't mind Dáin Ironfoot and the Iron Hills Dwarves, because I know they are your family-"

"They will be your family as well."

"True," she admitted, "and I remember when they came for the summer eclipse celebration - a gwiil, twelve years ago..." her voice trailed off in memory. There had been a rare summer solar eclipse and Thrór decided that there needed to be a festival of Dwarven proportions and invited his great nephew and the dwarves of the Iron Hills.

That Dwarf could break some plates and had no problems going nose to nose with the King of Erebor and drinking him under the table.

It had been great fun. Took a month to clean up the mess...

Thorin had had a hangover that lasted for days. So did Dwalin. They had been bad. So bad, he still blushed thinking about it and he prayed Gin never found out how bad he had been. He didn't remember the wench's name. Neither one of their names, come to think of it, much less what they looked like. For some time, every time he went to Dale, he kept his head down. Mahal forbid, he run across one of them and they recognized him. That would be embarrassing.

He realized suddenly that Gin had resumed talking.

"But I don't understand why all of Dale and Esgorath is invited... much less the Elves. I take that back," she hung her head. "I do understand why they are invited. I just wish it could be us. Our friends. Or why can't we just have our wedding and throw a celebration later?"

"Wish that we could."

For some minutes, the two simply held each other, wishing things could be different. They didn't realize that Balin was in the shadows, with his back turned.

"You know, this is such a beautiful spot," he finally spoke, clearing his throat. "So quiet and peaceful." He appeared to be contemplating the stars from the other side of the balcony. "I would bring my love up, if I had one. But I do not." With this he slowly turned. "I am sorry to interrupt, but the two of you are being searched for and it would be better if you went back on your own, rather than a group of guards storming the balcony here and embarrass you and your bride-to-be." He nodded towards the stairwell. "There is an extra torch on the landing."

Gin stepped back from Thorin's embrace and hugged the older dwarf before stepping back. "Thank you."

Before he could follow, Balin grabbed Thorin by the sleeve. "I heard what you and Gin discussed, about a wedding and then a celebration. It would take the stress off?"

"Most surely, it would," Thorin whispered. "This is becoming too elaborate of a gwiil than either of us would like."

"The wedding is in three months?"

"At the full moon, aye."

Thorin saw a ghost of a smile on his friend's face. "You let me talk to Dwalin, laddie. Maybe, we will come up with something."

_~~~...~~~_

The next few weeks were chaotic. There were clothes, fittings, new boots (Thorin hated new boots), jewelry. Thrór, despite falling deeper into his greed, was determined his grandson and eventual heir would not come off looking beggarly for the nuptials and he was equally determined his grandson's bride would be the most breathtaking dwarf-lass who ever married into the Line of Durin.

Well, next to Thrór's beloved Kveykva, that is.

And that meant impressing the guests. Especially the Elves. Especially Thranduil.

Most importantly, Thranduil.

Jewels for braids, for beards, Thorin demanding sapphires, rich, blue jewels for Gin, earrings, necklaces, rings. Their wedding bands, encrusted with diamonds and more sapphires...

Silks were imported from Dol Amroth; blue and silken thread to embroider Thorin's insignia, silver braiding and trim, merchants from Dale bringing precious oils and perfumes for Gin to sample.

Gin had a headache after the merchants left.

Sooooo many flowers...

Two weeks before the wedding, Thorin showed up at Gin's chambers late in the morning, a covered basket bouncing in his hands behind his back and dressed in his finest tunic and state robes. She was having the final fittings for most of her royal wardrobe and at the moment, her friends and mother had her clad in her favorite, a long blue tunic, trimmed with silver stars that she planned to wear for the wedding. "I have come," he was looking in the top of the cavern, "to take you on a picnic."

"On the hillside?"

"In the garden." He extended his arm. "Things have been hectic and are going to get worse." He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. "I have procured the day and evening for us." He winked. "Just us."

"I should change."

"You should not."

Two of Gin's attendants (and best friends) stood behind her, giggling. This caused Thorin's bride-to-be to glance at them sideways. "What are you two up to?"

"I've reached four foot seven, Gin," Heill replied, not quite straight faced. "I don't believe I'll grow much more. What do you think, Akkeri?"

Akkeri settled her right arm on her chest, cupping the left elbow with her right hand and her left hand cupping her chin, tapping her lip. "I don't know, girlfriend. You might have a late growth spurt. My sister did. She shot up an inch after she got married." She nodded to Thorin. "She's almost as tall as her husband now." Thorin knew this, but he wasn't about to tell the females Akkeri's brother-in-law joked about having to climb his own wife each night.

"You are up to something. I can smell it," Gin mumbled.

"Of course I am and of course we are!" Thorin grabbed Gin by the hand and tugged her towards the doorway. "But you will never find out what we are up to until you come with me." He pulled the door shut behind her, leaving her friends giggling in Gin's chambers. "You will like it. I promise."

Within minutes, the two were in the garden, soaking in the sunshine, eating fresh bread, lathered in honey butter and tender slivers of roast beef.

"Thorin, there are no eating utensils. How are we supposed to eat this?" Thorin's beloved quickly found a piece of meat, dangling in front of her face.

"Open up." Gin stared at the offered food.

"But-"

"Open. Up."

"But-"

"Gin, please just do it." Thorin waggled the meat, juices threatening to drip or fly, depending on how haphazardly the dwarf decided to shake.

Realizing that if she didn't eat from her intended's hand, she would more likely be wearing the grease so she opened up, watching as he set the food on her tongue. Sucking the juices from his fingers, she smiled saucily. "My turn," she whispered. Grasping a piece of the roast, she likewise returned the favor, trembling when his teeth latched gently about her fingers. Thus, they ate.

After the meal was finished, amid much giggling, Thorin began to rummage through the basket. "How stupid am I?" he wondered aloud, holding up a single sapphire-encrusted goblet, one that looked suspiciously like the one created for their nuptials. "I could have sworn I packed the mate to this. I suppose, " he sighed theatrically, "we will have to share. Here, hold it, while I pour." He passed the goblet to Gin. After filling the chalice, he held it while she drank, and in turn, she held it for him.

"Thorin, will we find a sword and broom nearby?"

"Most likely," he retorted jovially. Quickly, he turned serious. "Does this bother you?"

Gin's smile was generous and gentle. "It would be perfect, save we are missing our family and friends, Thorin."

Thorin leaned back, back, back so he was looking at the hillside above them. "No, we are not."

Gin turned to see her family, Thorin's family and their friends standing on the ledge above the garden. Thrór was in his finest armor and robes.

"C'mon wit' ye!" Dwalin roared. "Are y'gonna kiss 'er, ar no?"

"They have to jump the broom and sword first, Dwalin. As well as the king must say the sacred words and bless them." Balin was grinning from ear to ear.

"Do not deny me saying the sacred words, Dwalin, son of Fundin." Thrór's voice was a rumble.

Gin was staring at Thorin in wonder. "Thorin, I-"

"Our friends and family are here," Thorin whispered. "You are beautiful and I love you. I have arranged a room down in the nicest inn in Esgaroth for three days." He smiled brightly. "It has a private hot spring and indoor garden!" With large hands, he cupped her face, thumbing a tear away. "A wedding for us. The way we want it. And a celebration for the rest in two weeks." He nodded his head, "We do not _have_ to tell the guests." He inhaled. "What do you say?"

Gin placed both hands over his. "I say, you and I go up and join our family and get married." She turned her head and kissed the palm of his hand. "Thank you for thinking of this."

With that, Thorin tucked her hand in his elbow and headed towards the small gathering. "No, thank my father. Apparently, he and my mother did the same thing!"

And with that, he led her up the path, jumping a sword and a broom, which just happened to be lying in the path along the way.

And Thorin married his Gin.

_tbc_

_Heill - Luck_

_Akkeri - anchor_

_Gwiil - festival_

_Eyða - lay waste_


	10. 09 - The Grass beneath the Sun

_**Hanky warning. Dragon. **_

_**Chapter 09**_

_**The Grass beneath the Sun**_

Human _Age Equivalent - 25_

"DRAGON!"

Thorin had heard enough stories in his young life about dragons to know what Dale and Erebor were about to withstand. His great-grandfather and great-uncle had both been killed by a cold drake. The number of attacks on the old kingdom in the Grey Mountains were the reason why the settlement there was eventually abandoned by Thrór and his youngest brother, Grór, who went further east into the Iron Hills to form his own kingdom. Surely, they both thought, they were far from the winged beasts and their nests of the far north.

Balin would have fried with his beard, had Thorin not grabbed him and harbored with him behind one of the great granite pillars of Erebor. Quickly, his mind raced; his grandfather, the king would be in his treasure room, his father, with the gem cutters.

His wife...

Gin would be in their chambers or with her mother or his mother or...

Great Mahal, she could be on the mountainside, drinking in the sun.

_And heavy, so heavy with their first babe._

Heading down the stairs into the Great Hall, he began to issue orders. "Balin, take every available man to the front gate." With luck and prayers, it would be shut and barred, but Thorin rather doubted that even reinforced, the Great Doors would hold back a fire-breathing dragon. "Long pikes in the front. Evacuate the women and children to the side gates and passageways. Send them to the caves on the west side of the mountain. I want any who cannot fight away from the Great Hall."

He continued to move down the stairwell, searching those that were fleeing. He wanted to find his wife, his mother, but his duty...

For not the first time, Thorin detested being a Prince of Erebor.

"Thorin, where do you need me?" Dwalin was running down the corridor, his axes, Grasper and Keeper, sheathed on his back, a long handled pike in his hands. "Your father is on his way."

"My grandfather? The king? Do you know his whereabouts?" Dwalin shrugged and shook his head. "Go to my father. I'll be right there." He watched for a second as his friend ran down the corridor.

_Gin... Gin... where is Gin..._

"Brother!" Thorin's brother, Frerin, was not quite as tall as his brother. Where Thorin was dark haired and steel-eyed, Frerin was fair and dark eyed. He was stocky, as a dwarf should be and a strong fighter, like his elder brother. "Is it really a dragon?"

"Aye." Thorin continued to move through the hall, pointing, directing warriors and non-warriors alike.

"Why on earth would a fire-drake come so far for us?"

Thorin stopped and glared, causing his younger brother to cower. "Knowledge of our grandfather's greed for gold and precious stones has become wider spread than we suspected." Frerin nodded. "I need you to listen carefully and do as I say." The two went into the weapons room, Thorin grabbing several spears and pikes and passed them to his brother. "Find mother, find Dís-"

"Thorin! I want to fight!"

"FIND GIN!" At this point, Frerin knew this was a losing battle. "Someone needs to take the women and children out of here and into the outer caves." He didn't wait to see if his brother acknowledged him or not. "Find mother, Dís and Gin. Take them to the caves. Take everyone you can find to the caves!"

"How long should we wait?"

"Not long. A few days at best."

They reached a fork in the corridor, Thorin prepared to go left, into the Great Hall, where he could hear yelling, the sounds of the gates being braced. "If we are defeated, go to the Elven King of Mirkwood."

"Grandfather isn't very fond of him."

"Thrór is not fond of anyone, anymore," Thorin snarled. "Not friend, nor family." He inhaled quickly. "Go to Thranduil. Hopefully, he will help." Thorin hugged his brother quickly and then shoved him in the opposite direction. "Find our women. Get them to safety. Tell Gin I love her. If I don't return and the child is a boy, he is to be named Borin." With that, he turned down the corridor and headed toward the Great Gate of Erebor.

In hindsight, the battle would feel like it took hours, when in actuality, it was over in mere seconds. True to Thorin's deepest fear, the door, braced and reinforced, did not hold against a fire-breathing dragon. As the wood exploded, fire spewing through the air, Thorin didn't have time to be fascinated by the power of the beast, much less the terrifying beauty of it.

The beast leveled the Great Hall, destroying arches, pillars, leaving rubble in his wake. His tail, swinging like a great ax, tossed mighty dwarven warriors as if they were sand. As the beast literally walked over top of the guards, Thorin thought he saw a missing scale, but he dismissed it as fancy and shadow. The monster left ruin in his path, many, including warriors, fleeing outside the ruined gate. Thorin made to go after the beast, only to be grabbed by Dwalin.

"Where are you going?"

"My grandfather!" Thorin jerked from Dwalin's grasp and pointed to his friend's father, Fundin, who was aiding warriors to their feet. "Erebor is lost! We will need much reinforcement to retake the city. Get them out of here! To the caves! See if there are any survivors in Dale!" For some odd reason, Thorin did not believe the city of men outside the gates had been left unscathed by the fiend.

Running against the tide of fleeing dwarven mass, Thorin again prayed for the safety of his wife and his family. As the caverns expanded within Erebor, there was less true damage, and simply a mess. Thorin entered the Throne room in time to see his Thrór tip the Arkenstone from above his seat and cuddle it to him, much like a small babe.

_Of course, he would retrieve the Arkenstone, that which gave us the right to rule. Whoever held it held the kingship. Without it, we could not hold the Seven Armies to their oaths. It was the only thing besides Dwarves that was worth coming back for. With it, we can call aid to remove this beast!_

Except instead of pocketing the jewel and running to safety with the brightly-glowing gem, Thrór ran down behind the throne and towards his personal vault.

Where the dragon was also heading.

Thorin yelled, but his voice, powerful that it was, was lost in the sounds of screaming and roaring. In the back of his mind, Thorin knew that many lives were lost that day, but he couldn't dwell on that right that moment.

The dragon reached the vault moments before Thrór did, plunging in with the joy of a child in a pool of water.

The walls and ground shook as the dragon dove into the treasure, flinging all that Thorin's grandfather coveted and stacked so neatly, into the air, knocking the elder dwarf flat on his stomach, causing him to lose his grip on the precious crystal he held so tightly.

Thorin ran in behind him, in time to see the glowing orb bounce down onto what had been the floor and disappear in a moving river of gold.

Seeing that his grandfather was about to dive in after it, Thorin grabbed him around the waist and pulled him backwards, out of the chamber and into the corridor.

"But the Arkenstone-"

"We know where it is." Thorin pulled him through the smoky hallway. "We'll come back when he's not looking. When he's not expecting us. When we have reinforcements." He entered the Throne Room, mindful of the refuse of dwarves still running for their lives through the flaming ruin of the front gate. He saw death, bodies.

In the haze of smoke and dust, he saw his own father dazed, thrown against the wall.

Dwalin and Balin were heading towards him. "Help the King. Get him to safety." He passed the now befuddled dwarf to his friend and shoved them towards the door. "Take him to the caves. I'm following." As soon as they headed towards the gate, Thorin looked back, making sure the dragon was not behind them. Thorin prayed to Mahal that the toothed wyrm would be content to play in his ill-gotten wealth for a time, while the Dwarven army recouped. He then went to his father, pulling him to his feet.

Thráin's sight had not been the same since losing an eye to an orc during Thorin's first orc hunt. He didn't let it slow him down, but Thorin knew at times he had problems focusing, discerning distance. Throwing an arm around his shoulder and grabbing the dwarf by the waist, he pulled him up and headed through the Front Gate.

It was chaos. Sheer and utter chaos. Warriors were carrying children, little ones who weren't theirs, females were wailing, looking in horror at the destruction behind them in Erebor and ahead at Dale.

Dale was destroyed, in ruins. On fire. There would be no refuge there. Men from the city were meeting, congregating at the foot of the mountain. Several were pointing in many directions, brigades of them at the wells, pulling water, throwing it on a fire they could not contain. Some were armed.

Many were injured.

And then Thranduil and his Elves showed up on the rise.

Looked.

And left.

In that moment, Thorin knew Erebor was lost and his hate for the elves grew to infinite proportions and began to fester in ways that no one being should hate.

_~~~...~~~_

Supplies were scavenged from Dale, as much as possible. So much death, so much destruction.

So few survivors. So very few.

As Thorin rounded up his people, Frerin joined him, in aid, to help.

"Gin?"

"In the caves." The young dwarf was breathless, bent over. In the years to come, Thorin would remark to himself how much Fili would look like him. "I got mother and Dís out and met Gin coming through the west gate."

"She was in the garden. Of course." Better she was outside, away from that flying lizard, than in the bedlam within the Lonely Mountain. Wailing rose up, interrupting the discussion between the brothers.

Standing next to a smoldering house was a man, throwing water on the fallen, smoking beams. He turned an ash-darkened face and saw Thorin and Frerin. "Please, master dwarf. My wife and son... please."

Unable to deny aid, much less tell him there was no way anyone could live through such, the two went to assist the man. In the end, a small boy, clinging to life was found, under his mother who had not been so fortunate.

"Is there a healer in the caves?"

Frerin nodded. "Aye, but-"

"Send all survivors to the caves." Thorin pointed in the general direction. "All things salvageable, all food, to the caves."

A single man, scowling, injured, by the way he held his arm, glared down at Thorin. "Who are you, to order us where-"

"I do not see Girion," Thorin interrupted. "Night is falling and it is imperative your survivors find a safe place to stay, even for a night. Word of this will spread like wildfire and orcs and beasts of the night will fall upon you like wild things. " He let his words sink in. "There is room in the caves. Your people must make provisions, decision, as do we. I have done all I can here. I must tend to my people." With that, he turned and started the arduous climb to the caves on the west side of the mountain.

The caves were well hidden, easily fortified. In times of plenty, food stuffs, necessary goods were stored by the people of Dale; the Dwarves had no need of them, or thought they did not, nevertheless, they often added to the food supply, for while it was said Dwarves were greedy and cared not for others, it was not for food that they desired and the city of Dale had been good to them and for them. Therefore, it was an unspoken, mutual agreement. Besides, the deepest depths of the caves were as cool as a winter cellar, meats were hung, smoked, in the recesses, wine stacked in jugs and stored.

Thorin made his way to the main cave; someone there would be able to tell him where to find his family. His father, his grandfather, the king.

His wife.

He entered the cave, the one long designated to be the waygate in case of emergency. Sure enough, there were Dwarves, Men in charge, pointing, showing the way to food and shelter. Many were being carried to healers, healers that were now too few.

Fundin, Dwalin and Balin's father, stood guard, scrutinizing all who came through. His arms were crossed, his stance one that Thorin recognized in his youngest son. Balin, tough warrior that he was, took after his mother, a gentle soul, who could charm the pants off a hardened warrior and barter with the best of the fishwives. When the dwarf saw Thorin, he nodded him over. "Yer grandfather has been givin' a sleepin' draught to calm him down. He's ready to go and fight that beast by himself!"

Thorin shook his head. "Erebor is lost. Even the Elves turned away."

"Thranduil?" Fundin snarled. "Not surprised. Cares only about his kingdom in the woods and his pretty white sparklies. We are nothin' t'him."

Thorin leaned in. "Sound familiar?"

Fundin didn't crack a smile. "You kin say that. I kinna." The Dwarf barreled on. "Yer father took a nasty crack to t'head. Healer says he'll be fine in a few days."

"Did you see what happened?"

"Aye. Beast came up on his blind side. He never knew wha' hit him."

Thorin shook his head. Ever since his father lost an eye, his eyesight had been a burden to him. His field of depth was gone. "Mother and Dís are with him?"

"No." Fundin turned in the opposite direction. "They are in the south portion with your wife."

The southern set of caves was where the healing herbs were hung to dry, extra blankets, healing ointments and oils that needed cooler temperatures were kept. It was made up of a network of small, private caverns, perfect for healers and injured who needed privacy. Thorin's heart sank.

_Please not Gin...this pregnancy has been difficult, so prayed for, so long awaited..._

"Any dwarf or man who is able, put them on watch at the mouths." He took off down the long cavern, grabbing a torch as he went. Groans, cries echoed from the hallways and he bit his tongue to keep from telling them to be quiet, the wyrm would hear, the orcs would hear. He peered into each cavern, praying he wouldn't see his wife on the ground.

As he turned the final corridor, he was run into by his sister. She stumbled backwards, crying out and Thorin grabbed her by the arms to steady her. "Dís. Where is Gin?"

She was pale and she stuttered for a moment, Thorin's stomach now churning. "Thorin, I'm sorry, so sorry."

"Gin?" he rasped.

"I...I..."

She was interrupted by her mother, who tapped her on her shoulder. "Go check on your father again. Stay with him until I relieve you." She watched as her only daughter gave her eldest brother one sad look, before disappearing down the cavern hall.

"Gin?" It seemed to be the only word he could utter.

"She's... she'll be fine, eventually." Með took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Thorin. The flight wasn't good for her in her condition and she went into labor."

Thorin refused to believe what he was hearing. "The babe isn't due for three more moons."

"No, he wasn't." He. A boy. "A few more weeks, he would have survived."

Thorin's immediate fear was for his wife. "Gin-"

"Is very weak. She's lost a lot of blood, Thorin. No matter what is going on out there, she can't be moved for some weeks. Let's pray that dragon is happy in our horde and that nothing comes near while we protect our own and they recover." She stroked his shoulder. "She needs you. She needs your strength. She needs to know you love her. Losing a babe..." She blinked tears. "'Tis horrible, Thorin. 'Tis horrible." With that, she stepped around him and followed her daughter down the corridor.

Thorin steeled himself, before entering the softly lit cavern. His wife lay on a pile of furs in the middle of the floor; so pale, so frail looking. He knelt down, taking her hand in his, noting how thin her skin was suddenly. She was the color of porcelain and his fear for her now expanded ten-fold. He was vaguely aware when she squeezed his hand and touched his face with other. "You're here. You're alive."

"I'm too mean for a mere dragon to do away with me."

The back of her hand stroked his chin. "Your beard. It's singed off."

He never noticed, never realized. "It will grow back."

With this, her jaw began to tremble. "I lost our baby, Thorin. I'm sorry. So sorry."

Thorin found himself stretching out next to her, taking her into his arms. "It's not your fault," he whispered. "Another death to blame on that dragon."

"It was a boy. A son. I'm sorry."

Thorin tried to pull her closer. "It's not your fault, Gin. I love you. Do not fret." He stroked her hair from her face. Now was not the time to reassure her that once they settled in a new home, they would try again. He didn't know how long that would be, much less where it would be.

"It's cold, so cold here. I can't get warm."

And Thorin spent the night, smoky, smelling of fire and singed fur, keeping his wife warm, while they both grieved their lost baby.

_tbc_


End file.
